last words

for donna

As they said their goodnights,
the hesitance tangible in the air as
he said hey, she said what and
brief silence ensued as he mustered
the thought…I like you a lot.

She was smitten, that girl
no bigger than a cricket’s song,
her heart about to burst
the very size of God.

Love comes blind
in a willy-nilly way and
Like seeps in lasting long.


of that girl

She writes in the wee hours of the night
“sleeping is for the dead”, she says and
yet eyes heavy lidded, head nodding,
the little journal slipping from her grasp,
rest she must and does at last as

“go to sleep” he says soft, and
“yes sir” she replies in low
whispers as faint she barely
discerns his last words of
"sweet dream", too late...

that girl is already gone.

they're just numbers

Four cups of tea, two
pieces of toast and
three hours of good
cryin’ later, confused
I can’t stop the words
or the writing; all day
with the writing. My
wrists feel slit and
fingers numbing,
can’t stop feeling,
can’t stop thinking.

Honestly, I have to ask
myself if more would
be known in fifty-two
conversations than three.
And I answer yes cause
it took sixteen years
for me to know the last
but he didn't share did he
until now after two years
of being someone else's.

auras

Auras in flight
like lights
sparkly, almost
palpable
hazy shades
in overlay. I
see too much
too quick and
quickening
comes the beat
of a little heart
blushed peach.

second spirit

One morn late this week
I took off his ring, then
set aside his spirit
that I carried these
almost four years
past and eased
the weights from my
shoulders. Unwound,
unbound, freed after
all too long of a self
imposed imprisonment
I walked about
a little lost, no longer
did the second spirit speak.

chance II

Stop, stop,
I cannot read your words
of dreams and love
Though they are
unintentional
in thier cruelty they
show me what I don't have
can't have, may never find.
And I admit the desire,
the hope of wanting
the chance to see
if I could be that for you.

In limbo 'tween spark
and none, I had hoped...

we would for I was
atleast quite taken.

chance

I didn’t know what I was doing
but when you see a man as he lay
dying by your hand somehow
your despair becomes impassioned,
your promises prophetic.

And yet who was to know the depth
at which the psyche would wield
it’s governances when I took on

his frail spirit and swore

I will know no anger again
(as I did at God
when he faced me with
the taking a life) nor be the brunt;
I will be no less than happy,
(cherished, validated,
desired, unlike the life known
thus far, found lacking,
in need of want);
I will nourish my curious nature,
mind, heart, spirit
(leave no stone unturned
no chance unexplored);
I will live life to it’s fullest,
emoting expressively as I moan
and bleed
my soul like ink
on paper
and the scratch, scratch the pen
makes, my very being will I whore.

But chance;
it’s like an open door
and the coming to it, inspiration,
the getting of a glimpse, divinity and yet
now and again, my verve and
exuberance bruised
when suddenly it slams and promises
I made lay
unfulfilled.

My heart breaks, second spirit stirring as

sadly it is not the chance I mourn
or the person left unexplored
but loss like the unrealized absence
of a lover’s touch after being warmed,
like the lives I have known that passed,
like the thought of slow decay,

like promises I never should have have made
and burdens I never should have bourne.